8 a. m.—Late Edition—One star
9 a. m.—Extremely Late Edition—Two stars
10 a. m.—Inexcusably Late Edition—Three stars
11 a. m.—Hopelessly Late Edition—One constellation
12 m.—Midnight Edition—Two constellations
1 p. m.—Tomorrow Morning Edition—Group of planets
2 p. m.—Tomorrow Afternoon Edition—Complete solar system
3 p. m.—Day-After-Tomorrow Edition—Comet
4 p. m.—Next-Week Edition—Large comet
5 p. m.—Next-Month Edition—Unusually large comet
6 p. m.—Next-Year Edition—Complete zodiac
7 p. m.—Special Doomsday Extra—Milky way and nebulae
[OPPRESSORS OF THE MEEK]
I am not afraid of bloated bondholders. I suspect that they are just humans like myself, only that they have money.
But I am afraid of their servants. They are not human. No one ever saw them eat or sleep or smile.
My millionaire host may overlook the fact that I am using the salad-fork for the fish; not so his English butler. This austere personage takes note of my error in silence, and, when the salad course arrives, steals up behind me like Nemesis, and lays by my plate the fork that correct form demands. I feel chastened.
His eye is always upon me. I can't even take a sip of water without his calling attention to it by stealthily refilling my glass.
If he didn't watch me so closely when I am helping myself, I wouldn't be so nervous. As it is, my hand trembles under his grueling stare. Just at the critical moment when my tongful of asparagus, conveyed like a hot coal, is poised in mid-air between the serving-dish and my plate, I flinch, and there is a green-and-white avalanche. I make a frantic slap at it as it falls, and by good luck it lands on the plate. To be sure, some of the stalks are craning their necks perilously over the edge, but that is a small matter compared with what might have happened. I rake them into the middle of the plate, sit gasping at the thought of my narrow escape.